THE DREAM OF DEBS

I awoke fully an hour before my customary time. This in itself was remarkable, and I lay very wide awake, pondering over it. Something was the matter, something was wrong—I knew not what. I was oppressed by a premonition of something terrible that had happened or was about to happen. But what was it? I strove to orient myself. I remembered that at the time of the Great Earthquake
of 1906 many claimed they awakened some moments before the first shock
and that during these moments they experienced strange feelings of dread.
Was San Francisco again to be visited by earthquake?

I lay for a full minute, numbly expectant, but there occurred no
reeling of walls nor shock and grind of falling masonry. All was
quiet. That was it! The silence! No wonder I had been
perturbed. The hum of the great live city was strangely absent.
The surface cars passed along my street, at that time of day, on an
average of one every three minutes; but in the ten succeeding minutes
not a car passed. Perhaps it was a street-railway strike, was
my thought; or perhaps there had been an accident and the power was
shut off. But no, the silence was too profound. I heard
no jar and rattle of waggon wheels, nor stamp of iron-shod hoofs straining
up the steep cobble-stones.

Pressing the push-button beside my bed, I strove to hear the sound
of the bell, though I well knew it was impossible for the sound to rise
three stories to me even if the bell did ring. It rang all right,
for a few minutes later Brown entered with the tray and morning paper.
Though his features were impassive as ever, I noted a startled, apprehensive
light in his eyes. I noted, also, that there was no cream on the
tray.

“The Creamery did not deliver this morning,” he explained;
“nor did the bakery.”

I glanced again at the tray. There were no fresh French rolls—only
slices of stale graham bread from yesterday, the most detestable of
bread so far as I was concerned.

“Nothing was delivered this morning, sir,” Brown started
to explain apologetically; but I interrupted him.

“The paper?”

“Yes, sir, it was delivered, but it was the only thing, and
it is the last time, too. There won’t be any paper to-morrow.
The paper says so. Can I send out and get you some condensed milk?”

I shook my head, accepted the coffee black, and spread open the paper.
The headlines explained everything—explained too much, in fact,
for the lengths of pessimism to which the journal went were ridiculous.
A general strike, it said, had been called all over the United States;
and most foreboding anxieties were expressed concerning the provisioning
of the great cities.

I read on hastily, skimming much and remembering much of labour troubles
in the past. For a generation the general strike had been the
dream of organized labour, which dream had arisen originally in the
mind of Debs, one of the great labour leaders of thirty years before.
I recollected that in my young college-settlement days I had even written
an article on the subject for one of the magazines and that I had entitled
it “The Dream of Debs.” And I must confess that I
had treated the idea very cavalierly and academically as a dream and
nothing more. Time and the world had rolled on, Gompers was gone,
the American Federation of Labour was gone, and gone was Debs with all
his wild revolutionary ideas; but the dream had persisted, and here
it was at last realized in fact. But I laughed, as I read, at
the journal’s gloomy outlook. I knew better. I had
seen organized labour worsted in too many conflicts. It would
be a matter only of days when the thing would be settled. This
was a national strike, and it wouldn’t take the Government long
to break it.

I threw the paper down and proceeded to dress. It would certainly
be interesting to be out in the streets of San Francisco when not a
wheel was turning and the whole city was taking an enforced vacation.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Brown said, as he handed me
my cigar-case, “but Mr. Harmmed has asked to see you before you
go out.”

“Send him in right away,” I answered.

Harmmed was the butler. When he entered I could see he was
labouring under controlled excitement. He came at once to the
point.

“What shall I do, sir? There will be needed provisions,
and the delivery drivers are on strike. And the electricity is
shut off—I guess they’re on strike, too.”

“Are the shops open?” I asked.

“Only the small ones, sir. The retail clerks are out,
and the big ones can’t open; but the owners and their families
are running the little ones themselves.”

“Then take the machine,” I said, “and go the rounds
and make your purchases. Buy plenty of everything you need or
may need. Get a box of candles—no, get half-a-dozen boxes.
And, when you’re done, tell Harrison to bring the machine around
to the club for me—not later than eleven.”

Harmmed shook his head gravely. “Mr. Harrison has struck
along with the Chauffeurs’ Union, and I don’t know how to
run the machine myself.”

“Oh, ho, he has, has he?” said. “Well, when
next Mister Harrison happens around you tell him that he can look elsewhere
for a position.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t happen to belong to a Butlers’ Union,
do you, Harmmed?”

“No, sir,” was the answer. “And even if I
did I’d not desert my employer in a crisis like this. No,
sir, I would—”

“All right, thank you,” I said. “Now you
get ready to accompany me. I’ll run the machine myself,
and we’ll lay in a stock of provisions to stand a siege.”

It was a beautiful first of May, even as May days go. The sky
was cloudless, there was no wind, and the air was warm—almost
balmy. Many autos were out, but the owners were driving them themselves.
The streets were crowded but quiet. The working class, dressed
in its Sunday best, was out taking the air and observing the effects
of the strike. It was all so unusual, and withal so peaceful,
that I found myself enjoying it. My nerves were tingling with
mild excitement. It was a sort of placid adventure. I passed
Miss Chickering. She was at the helm of her little runabout.
She swung around and came after me, catching me at the corner.

“Oh, Mr. Corf!”’ she hailed. “Do you
know where I can buy candles? I’ve been to a dozen shops,
and they’re all sold out. It’s dreadfully awful, isn’t
it?”

But her sparkling eyes gave the lie to her words. Like the
rest of us, she was enjoying it hugely. Quite an adventure it
was, getting those candles. It was not until we went across the
city and down into the working-class quarter south of Market Street
that we found small corner groceries that had not yet sold out.
Miss Chickering thought one box was sufficient, but I persuaded her
into taking four. My car was large, and I laid in a dozen boxes.
There was no telling what delays might arise in the settlement of the
strike. Also, I filled the car with sacks of flour, baking-powder,
tinned goods, and all the ordinary necessaries of life suggested by
Harmmed, who fussed around and clucked over the purchases like an anxious
old hen.

The remarkable thing, that first day of the strike, was that no one
really apprehended anything serious. The announcement of organized
labour in the morning papers that it was prepared to stay out a month
or three months was laughed at. And yet that very first day we
might have guessed as much from the fact that the working class took
practically no part in the great rush to buy provisions. Of course
not. For weeks and months, craftily and secretly, the whole working
class had been laying in private stocks of provisions. That was
why we were permitted to go down and buy out the little groceries in
the working-class neighbourhoods.

It was not until I arrived at the club that afternoon that I began
to feel the first alarm. Everything was in confusion. There
were no olives for the cocktails, and the service was by hitches and
jerks. Most of the men were angry, and all were worried.
A babel of voices greeted me as I entered. General Folsom, nursing
his capacious paunch in a window-seat in the smoking-room was defending
himself against half-a-dozen excited gentlemen who were demanding that
he should do something.

“What can I do more than I have done?” he was saying.
“There are no orders from Washington. If you gentlemen will
get a wire through I’ll do anything I am commanded to do.
But I don’t see what can be done. The first thing I did
this morning, as soon as I learned of the strike, was to order in the
troops from the Presidio—three thousand of them. They’re
guarding the banks, the Mint, the post office, and all the public buildings.
There is no disorder whatever. The strikers are keeping the peace
perfectly. You can’t expect me to shoot them down as they
walk along the streets with wives and children all in their best bib
and tucker.”

“I’d like to know what’s happening on Wall Street,”
I heard Jimmy Wombold say as I passed along. I could imagine his
anxiety, for I knew that he was deep in the big Consolidated-Western
deal.

“Say, Corf,” Atkinson bustled up to me, “is your
machine running?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but what’s the matter
with your own?”

“Broken down, and the garages are all closed. And my
wife’s somewhere around Truckee, I think, stalled on the overland.
Can’t get a wire to her for love or money. She should have
arrived this evening. She may be starving. Lend me your
machine.”

“Can’t get it across the bay,” Halstead spoke up.
“The ferries aren’t running. But I tell you what you
can do. There’s Rollinson—oh, Rollinson, come here
a moment. Atkinson wants to get a machine across the bay.
His wife is stuck on the overland at Truckee. Can’t you
bring the Lurlette across from Tiburon and carry the machine
over for him?”

The Lurlette was a two-hundred-ton, ocean-going schooner-yacht.

Rollinson shook his head. “You couldn’t get a longshoreman
to land the machine on board, even if I could get the Lurlette
over, which I can’t, for the crew are members of the Coast Seamen’s
Union, and they’re on strike along with the rest.”

“But my wife may be starving,” I could hear Atkinson
wailing as I moved on.

At the other end of the smoking-room I ran into a group of men bunched
excitedly and angrily around Bertie Messener. And Bertie was stirring
them up and prodding them in his cool, cynical way. Bertie didn’t
care about the strike. He didn’t care much about anything.
He was blasé—at least in all the clean things of life;
the nasty things had no attraction for him. He was worth twenty
millions, all of it in safe investments, and he had never done a tap
of productive work in his life—inherited it all from his father
and two uncles. He had been everywhere, seen everything, and done
everything but get married, and this last in the face of the grim and
determined attack of a few hundred ambitious mammas. For years
he had been the greatest catch, and as yet he had avoided being caught.
He was disgracefully eligible. On top of his wealth he was young,
handsome, and, as I said before, clean. He was a great athlete,
a young blond god that did everything perfectly and admirably with the
solitary exception of matrimony. And he didn’t care about
anything, had no ambitions, no passions, no desire to do the very things
he did so much better than other men.

“This is sedition!” one man in the group was crying.
Another called it revolt and revolution, and another called it anarchy.

“I can’t see it,” Bertie said. “I have
been out in the streets all morning. Perfect order reigns.
I never saw a more law-abiding populace. There’s no use
calling it names. It’s not any of those things. It’s
just what it claims to be, a general strike, and it’s your turn
to play, gentlemen.”

“And we’ll play all right!” cried Garfield, one
of the traction millionaires. “We’ll show this dirt
where its place is—the beasts! Wait till the Government
takes a hand.”

“But where is the Government?” Bertie interposed.
“It might as well be at the bottom of the sea so far as you’re
concerned. You don’t know what’s happening at Washington.
You don’t know whether you’ve got a Government or not.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Garfield blurted
out.

“I assure you I’m not worrying,” Bertie smiled
languidly. “But it seems to me it’s what you fellows
are doing. Look in the glass, Garfield.”

Garfield did not look, but had he looked he would have seen a very
excited gentleman with rumpled, iron-grey hair, a flushed face, mouth
sullen and vindictive, and eyes wildly gleaming.

“It’s not right, I tell you,” little Hanover said;
and from his tone I was sure that he had already said it a number of
times.

“Now that’s going too far, Hanover,” Bertie replied.
“You fellows make me tired. You’re all open-shop men.
You’ve eroded my eardrums with your endless gabble for the open
shop and the right of a man to work. You’ve harangued along
those lines for years. Labour is doing nothing wrong in going
out on this general strike. It is violating no law of God nor
man. Don’t you talk, Hanover. You’ve been ringing
the changes too long on the God-given right to work . . . or not to
work; you can’t escape the corollary. It’s a dirty
little sordid scrap, that’s all the whole thing is. You’ve
got labour down and gouged it, and now labour’s got you down and
is gouging you, that’s all, and you’re squealing.”

Every man in the group broke out in indignant denials that labour
had ever been gouged.

“No, sir!” Garfield was shouting. “We’ve
done the best for labour. Instead of gouging it, we’ve given
it a chance to live. We’ve made work for it. Where
would labour be if it hadn’t been for us?”

“A whole lot better off,” Bertie sneered. “You’ve
got labour down and gouged it every time you got a chance, and you went
out of your way to make chances.”

“No! No!” were the cries.

“There was the teamsters’ strike, right here in San Francisco,”
Bertie went on imperturbably. “The Employers’ Association
precipitated that strike. You know that. And you know I
know it, too, for I’ve sat in these very rooms and heard the inside
talk and news of the fight. First you precipitated the strike,
then you bought the Mayor and the Chief of Police and broke the strike.
A pretty spectacle, you philanthropists getting the teamsters down and
gouging them.

“Hold on, I’m not through with you. It’s
only last year that the labour ticket of Colorado elected a governor.
He was never seated. You know why. You know how your brother
philanthropists and capitalists of Colorado worked it. It was
a case of getting labour down and gouging it. You kept the president
of the South-western Amalgamated Association of Miners in jail for three
years on trumped-up murder charges, and with him out of the way you
broke up the association. That was gouging labour, you’ll
admit. The third time the graduated income tax was declared unconstitutional
was a gouge. So was the eight-hour Bill you killed in the last
Congress.

“And of all unmitigated immoral gouges, your destruction of
the closed-shop principle was the limit. You know how it was done.
You bought out Farburg, the last president of the old American Federation
of Labour. He was your creature—or the creature of all the
trusts and employers’ associations, which is the same thing.
You precipitated the big closed-shop strike. Farburg betrayed
that strike. You won, and the old American Federation of Labour
crumbled to pieces. You follows destroyed it, and by so doing
undid yourselves; for right on top of it began the organization of the
I.L.W.—the biggest and solidest organization of labour the United
States has ever seen, and you are responsible for its existence and
for the present general strike. You smashed all the old federations
and drove labour into the I.L.W., and the I.L.W. called the general
strike—still fighting for the closed shop. And then you
have the effrontery to stand here face to face and tell me that you
never got labour down and gouged it. Bah!”

This time there were no denials. Garfield broke out in self-defence—

“We’ve done nothing we were not compelled to do, if we
were to win.”

“I’m not saying anything about that,” Bertie answered.
“What I am complaining about is your squealing now that you’re
getting a taste of your own medicine. How many strikes have you
won by starving labour into submission? Well, labour’s worked
out a scheme whereby to starve you into submission. It wants the
closed shop, and, if it can get it by starving you, why, starve you
shall.”

“I notice that you have profited in the past by those very
labour gouges you mention,” insinuated Brentwood, one of the wiliest
and most astute of our corporation lawyers. “The receiver
is as bad as the thief,” he sneered. “You had no hand
in the gouging, but you took your whack out of the gouge.”

“That is quite beside the question, Brentwood,” Bertie
drawled. “You’re as bad as Hanover, intruding the
moral element. I haven’t said that anything is right or
wrong. It’s all a rotten game, I know; and my sole kick
is that you fellows are squealing now that you’re down and labour’s
taking a gouge out of you. Of course I’ve taken the profits
from the gouging and, thanks to you, gentlemen, without having personally
to do the dirty work. You did that for me—oh, believe me,
not because I am more virtuous than you, but because my good father
and his various brothers left me a lot of money with which to pay for
the dirty work.”

“If you mean to insinuate—” Brentwood began hotly.

“Hold on, don’t get all-ruffled up,” Bertie interposed
insolently. “There’s no use in playing hypocrites
in this thieves’ den. The high and lofty is all right for
the newspapers, boys’ clubs, and Sunday schools—that’s
part of the game; but for heaven’s sake don’t let’s
play it on one another. You know, and you know that I know just
what jobbery was done in the building trades’ strike last fall,
who put up the money, who did the work, and who profited by it.”
(Brentwood flushed darkly.) “But we are all tarred with
the same brush, and the best thing for us to do is to leave morality
out of it. Again I repeat, play the game, play it to the last
finish, but for goodness’ sake don’t squeal when you get
hurt.”

When I left the group Bertie was off on a new tack tormenting them
with the more serious aspects of the situation, pointing out the shortage
of supplies that was already making itself felt, and asking them what
they were going to do about it. A little later I met him in the
cloak-room, leaving, and gave him a lift home in my machine.

“It’s a great stroke, this general strike,” he
said, as we bowled along through the crowded but orderly streets.
“It’s a smashing body-blow. Labour caught us napping
and struck at our weakest place, the stomach. I’m going
to get out of San Francisco, Corf. Take my advice and get out,
too. Head for the country, anywhere. You’ll have more
chance. Buy up a stock of supplies and get into a tent or a cabin
somewhere. Soon there’ll be nothing but starvation in this
city for such as we.”

How correct Bertie Messener was I never dreamed. I decided
that he was an alarmist. As for myself, I was content to remain
and watch the fun. After I dropped him, instead of going directly
home, I went on in a hunt for more food. To my surprise, I learned
that the small groceries where I had bought in the morning were sold
out. I extended my search to the Potrero, and by good luck managed
to pick up another box of candles, two sacks of wheat flour, ten pounds
of graham flour (which would do for the servants), a case of tinned
corn, and two cases of tinned tomatoes. It did look as though
there was going to be at least a temporary food shortage, and I hugged
myself over the goodly stock of provisions I had laid in.

The next morning I had my coffee in bed as usual, and, more than
the cream, I missed the daily paper. It was this absence of knowledge
of what was going on in the world that I found the chief hardship.
Down at the club there was little news. Rider had crossed from
Oakland in his launch, and Halstead had been down to San Jose and back
in his machine. They reported the same conditions in those places
as in San Francisco. Everything was tied up by the strike.
All grocery stocks had been bought out by the upper classes. And
perfect order reigned. But what was happening over the rest of
the country—in Chicago? New York? Washington?
Most probably the same things that were happening with us, we concluded;
but the fact that we did not know with absolute surety was irritating.

General Folsom had a bit of news. An attempt had been made
to place army telegraphers in the telegraph offices, but the wires had
been cut in every direction. This was, so far, the one unlawful
act committed by labour, and that it was a concerted act he was fully
convinced. He had communicated by wireless with the army post
at Benicia, the telegraph lines were even then being patrolled by soldiers
all the way to Sacramento. Once, for one short instant, they had
got the Sacramento call, then the wires, somewhere, were cut again.
General Folsom reasoned that similar attempts to open communication
were being made by the authorities all the way across the continent,
but he was non-committal as to whether or not he thought the attempt
would succeed. What worried him was the wire-cutting; he could
not but believe that it was an important part of the deep-laid labour
conspiracy. Also, he regretted that the Government had not long
since established its projected chain of wireless stations.

The days came and went, and for a while it was a humdrum time.
Nothing happened. The edge of excitement had become blunted.
The streets were not so crowded. The working class did not come
uptown any more to see how we were taking the strike. And there
were not so many automobiles running around. The repair-shops
and garages were closed, and whenever a machine broke down it went out
of commission. The clutch on mine broke, and neither love nor
money could get it repaired. Like the rest, I was now walking.
San Francisco lay dead, and we did not know what was happening over
the rest of the country. But from the very fact that we did not
know we could conclude only that the rest of the country lay as dead
as San Francisco. From time to time the city was placarded with
the proclamations of organized labour—these had been printed months
before, and evidenced how thoroughly the I.L.W. had prepared for the
strike. Every detail had been worked out long in advance.
No violence had occurred as yet, with the exception of the shooting
of a few wire-cutters by the soldiers, but the people of the slums were
starving and growing ominously restless.

The business men, the millionaires, and the professional class held
meetings and passed resolutions, but there was no way of making the
proclamations public. They could not even get them printed.
One result of these meetings, however, was that General Folsom was persuaded
into taking military possession of the wholesale houses and of all the
flour, grain, and food warehouses. It was high time, for suffering
was becoming acute in the homes of the rich, and bread-lines were necessary.
I knew that my servants were beginning to draw long faces, and it was
amazing—the hole they made in my stock of provisions. In
fact, as I afterward surmised, each servant was stealing from me and
secreting a private stock of provisions for himself.

But with the formation of the bread-lines came new troubles.
There was only so much of a food reserve in San Francisco, and at the
best it could not last long. Organized labour, we knew, had its
private supplies; nevertheless, the whole working class joined the bread-lines.
As a result, the provisions General Folsom had taken possession of diminished
with perilous rapidity. How were the soldiers to distinguish between
a shabby middle-class man, a member of the I.L.W., or a slum dweller?
The first and the last had to be fed, but the soldiers did not know
all the I.L.W. men in the city, much less the wives and sons and daughters
of the I.L.W. men. The employers helping, a few of the known union
men were flung out of the bread-lines; but that amounted to nothing.
To make matters worse, the Government tugs that had been hauling food
from the army depots on Mare Island to Angel Island found no more food
to haul. The soldiers now received their rations from the confiscated
provisions, and they received them first.

The beginning of the end was in sight. Violence was beginning
to show its face. Law and order were passing away, and passing
away, I must confess, among the slum people and the upper classes.
Organized labour still maintained perfect order. It could well
afford to—it had plenty to eat. I remember the afternoon
at the club when I caught Halstead and Brentwood whispering in a corner.
They took me in on the venture. Brentwood’s machine was
still in running order, and they were going out cow-stealing.
Halstead had a long butcher knife and a cleaver. We went out to
the outskirts of the city. Here and there were cows grazing, but
always they were guarded by their owners. We pursued our quest,
following along the fringe of the city to the east, and on the hills
near Hunter’s Point we came upon a cow guarded by a little girl.
There was also a young calf with the cow. We wasted no time on
preliminaries. The little girl ran away screaming, while we slaughtered
the cow. I omit the details, for they are not nice—we were
unaccustomed to such work, and we bungled it.

But in the midst of it, working with the haste of fear, we heard
cries, and we saw a number of men running toward us. We abandoned
the spoils and took to our heels. To our surprise we were not
pursued. Looking back, we saw the men hurriedly cutting up the
cow. They had been on the same lay as ourselves. We argued
that there was plenty for all, and ran back. The scene that followed
beggars description. We fought and squabbled over the division
like savages. Brentwood, I remember, was a perfect brute, snarling
and snapping and threatening that murder would be done if we did not
get our proper share.

And we were getting our share when there occurred a new irruption
on the scene. This time it was the dreaded peace officers of the
I.L.W. The little girl had brought them. They were armed
with whips and clubs, and there were a score of them. The little
girl danced up and down in anger, the tears streaming down her cheeks,
crying: “Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em!
That guy with the specs—he did it! Mash his face for him!
Mash his face!” That guy with the specs was I, and I got
my face mashed, too, though I had the presence of mind to take off my
glasses at the first. My! but we did receive a trouncing as we
scattered in all directions. Brentwood, Halstead, and I fled away
for the machine. Brentwood’s nose was bleeding, while Halstead’s
cheek was cut across with the scarlet slash of a black-snake whip.

And, lo, when the pursuit ceased and we had gained the machine, there,
hiding behind it, was the frightened calf. Brentwood warned us
to be cautious, and crept up on it like a wolf or tiger. Knife
and cleaver had been left behind, but Brentwood still had his hands,
and over and over on the ground he rolled with the poor little calf
as he throttled it. We threw the carcass into the machine, covered
it over with a robe, and started for home. But our misfortunes
had only begun. We blew out a tyre. There was no way of
fixing it, and twilight was coming on. We abandoned the machine,
Brentwood pulling and staggering along in advance, the calf, covered
by the robe, slung across his shoulders. We took turn about carrying
that calf, and it nearly killed us. Also, we lost our way.
And then, after hours of wandering and toil, we encountered a gang of
hoodlums. They were not I.L.W. men, and I guess they were as hungry
as we. At any rate, they got the calf and we got the thrashing.
Brentwood raged like a madman the rest of the way home, and he looked
like one, with his torn clothes, swollen nose, and blackened eyes.

There wasn’t any more cow-stealing after that. General
Folsom sent his troopers out and confiscated all the cows, and his troopers,
aided by the militia, ate most of the meat. General Folsom was
not to be blamed; it was his duty to maintain law and order, and he
maintained it by means of the soldiers, wherefore he was compelled to
feed them first of all.

It was about this time that the great panic occurred. The wealthy
classes precipitated the flight, and then the slum people caught the
contagion and stampeded wildly out of the city. General Folsom
was pleased. It was estimated that at least 200,000 had deserted
San Francisco, and by that much was his food problem solved. Well
do I remember that day. In the morning I had eaten a crust of
bread. Half of the afternoon I had stood in the bread-line; and
after dark I returned home, tired and miserable, carrying a quart of
rice and a slice of bacon. Brown met me at the door. His
face was worn and terrified. All the servants had fled, he informed
me. He alone remained. I was touched by his faithfulness
and, when I learned that he had eaten nothing all day, I divided my
food with him. We cooked half the rice and half the bacon, sharing
it equally and reserving the other half for morning. I went to
bed with my hunger, and tossed restlessly all night. In the morning
I found Brown had deserted me, and, greater misfortune still, he had
stolen what remained of the rice and bacon.

It was a gloomy handful of men that came together at the club that
morning. There was no service at all. The last servant was
gone. I noticed, too, that the silver was gone, and I learned
where it had gone. The servants had not taken it, for the reason,
I presume, that the club members got to it first. Their method
of disposing of it was simple. Down south of Market Street, in
the dwellings of the I.L.W., the housewives had given square meals in
exchange for it. I went back to my house. Yes, my silver
was gone—all but a massive pitcher. This I wrapped up and
carried down south of Market Street.

I felt better after the meal, and returned to the club to learn if
there was anything new in the situation. Hanover, Collins, and
Dakon were just leaving. There was no one inside, they told me,
and they invited me to come along with them. They were leaving
the city, they said, on Dakon’s horses, and there was a spare
one for me. Dakon had four magnificent carriage horses that he wanted
to save, and General Folsom had given him the tip that next morning
all the horses that remained in the city were to be confiscated for
food. There were not many horses left, for tens of thousands of
them had been turned loose into the country when the hay and grain gave
out during the first days. Birdall, I remember, who had great
draying interests, had turned loose three hundred dray horses.
At an average value of five hundred dollars, this had amounted to $150,000.
He had hoped, at first, to recover most of the horses after the strike
was over, but in the end he never recovered one of them. They
were all eaten by the people that fled from San Francisco. For
that matter, the killing of the army mules and horses for food had already
begun.

Fortunately for Dakon, he had had a plentiful supply of hay and grain
stored in his stable. We managed to raise four saddles, and we
found the animals in good condition and spirited, withal unused to being
ridden. I remembered the San Francisco of the great earthquake
as we rode through the streets, but this San Francisco was vastly more
pitiable. No cataclysm of nature had caused this, but, rather,
the tyranny of the labour unions. We rode down past Union Square
and through the theatre, hotel, and shopping districts. The streets
were deserted. Here and there stood automobiles, abandoned where
they had broken down or when the gasolene had given out. There
was no sign of life, save for the occasional policemen and the soldiers
guarding the banks and public buildings. Once we came upon an
I.L.W. man pasting up the latest proclamation. We stopped to read.
“We have maintained an orderly strike,” it ran; “and
we shall maintain order to the end. The end will come when our
demands are satisfied, and our demands will be satisfied when we have
starved our employers into submission, as we ourselves in the past have
often been starved into submission.”

“Messener’s very words,” Collins said. “And
I, for one, am ready to submit, only they won’t give me a chance
to submit. I haven’t had a full meal in an age. I
wonder what horse-meat tastes like?”

We stopped to read another proclamation: “When we think our
employers are ready to submit we shall open up the telegraphs and place
the employers’ associations of the United States in communication.
But only messages relating to peace terms shall be permitted over the
wires.”

We rode on, crossed Market Street, and a little later were passing
through the working-class district. Here the streets were not
deserted. Leaning over the gates or standing in groups were the
I.L.W. men. Happy, well-fed children were playing games, and stout
housewives sat on the front steps gossiping. One and all cast
amused glances at us. Little children ran after us, crying: “Hey,
mister, ain’t you hungry?” And one woman, nursing
a child at her breast, called to Dakon: “Say, Fatty, I’ll
give you a meal for your skate—ham and potatoes, currant jelly,
white bread, canned butter, and two cups of coffee.”

“Have you noticed, the last few days,” Hanover remarked
to me, “that there’s not been a stray dog in the streets?”

I had noticed, but I had not thought about it before. It was
high time to leave the unfortunate city. We at last managed to
connect with the San Bruno Road, along which we headed south.
I had a country place near Menlo, and it was our objective. But
soon we began to discover that the country was worse off and far more
dangerous than the city. There the soldiers and the I.L.W. kept
order; but the country had been turned over to anarchy. Two hundred
thousand people had fled from San Francisco, and we had countless evidences
that their flight had been like that of an army of locusts.

They had swept everything clean. There had been robbery and
fighting. Here and there we passed bodies by the roadside and
saw the blackened ruins of farm-houses. The fences were down,
and the crops had been trampled by the feet of a multitude. All
the vegetable patches had been rooted up by the famished hordes.
All the chickens and farm animals had been slaughtered. This was
true of all the main roads that led out of San Francisco. Here
and there, away from the roads, farmers had held their own with shotguns
and revolvers, and were still holding their own. They warned us
away and refused to parley with us. And all the destruction and
violence had been done by the slum-dwellers and the upper classes.
The I.L.W. men, with plentiful food supplies, remained quietly in their
homes in the cities.

Early in the ride we received concrete proof of how desperate was
the situation. To the right of us we heard cries and rifle-shots.
Bullets whistled dangerously near. There was a crashing in the
underbrush; then a magnificent black truck-horse broke across the road
in front of us and was gone. We had barely time to notice that
he was bleeding and lame. He was followed by three soldiers.
The chase went on among the trees on the left. We could hear the
soldiers calling to one another. A fourth soldier limped out upon
the road from the right, sat down on a boulder, and mopped the sweat
from his face.

“Militia,” Dakon whispered. “Deserters.”

The man grinned up at us and asked for a match. In reply to
Dakon’s “What’s the word?” he informed us that
the militiamen were deserting. “No grub,” he explained.
“They’re feedin’ it all to the regulars.”
We also learned from him that the military prisoners had been released
from Alcatraz Island because they could no longer be fed.

I shall never forget the next sight we encountered. We came
upon it abruptly around a turn of the road. Overhead arched the
trees. The sunshine was filtering down through the branches.
Butterflies were fluttering by, and from the fields came the song of
larks. And there it stood, a powerful touring car. About
it and in it lay a number of corpses. It told its own tale.
Its occupants, fleeing from the city, had been attacked and dragged
down by a gang of slum dwellers—hoodlums. The thing had
occurred within twenty-four hours. Freshly opened meat and fruit
tins explained the reason for the attack. Dakon examined the bodies.

“I thought so,” he reported. “I’ve
ridden in that car. It was Perriton—the whole family.
We’ve got to watch out for ourselves from now on.”

“But we have no food with which to invite attack,” I
objected.

Dakon pointed to the horse I rode, and I understood.

Early in the day Dakon’s horse had cast a shoe. The delicate
hoof had split, and by noon the animal was limping. Dakon refused
to ride it farther, and refused to desert it. So, on his solicitation,
we went on. He would lead the horse and join us at my place.
That was the last we saw of him; nor did we ever learn his end.

By one o’clock we arrived at the town of Menlo, or, rather,
at the site of Menlo, for it was in ruins. Corpses lay everywhere.
The business part of the town, as well as part of the residences, had
been gutted by fire. Here and there a residence still held out;
but there was no getting near them. When we approached too closely
we were fired upon. We met a woman who was poking about in the
smoking ruins of her cottage. The first attack, she told us had
been on the stores, and as she talked we could picture that raging,
roaring, hungry mob flinging itself on the handful of townspeople.
Millionaires and paupers had fought side by side for the food, and then
fought with one another after they got it. The town of Palo Alto
and Stanford University had been sacked in similar fashion, we learned.
Ahead of us lay a desolate, wasted land; and we thought we were wise
in turning off to my place. It lay three miles to the west, snuggling
among the first rolling swells of the foothills.

But as we rode along we saw that the devastation was not confined
to the main roads. The van of the flight had kept to the roads,
sacking the small towns as it went; while those that followed had scattered
out and swept the whole countryside like a great broom. My place
was built of concrete, masonry, and tiles, and so had escaped being
burned, but it was gutted clean. We found the gardener’s
body in the windmill, littered around with empty shot-gun shells.
He had put up a good fight. But no trace could we find of the
two Italian labourers, nor of the house-keeper and her husband.
Not a live thing remained. The calves, the colts, all the fancy
poultry and thoroughbred stock, everything, was gone. The kitchen
and the fireplaces, where the mob had cooked, were a mess, while many
camp-fires outside bore witness to the large number that had fed and
spent the night. What they had not eaten they had carried away.
There was not a bite for us.

We spent the rest of the night vainly waiting for Dakon, and in the
morning, with our revolvers, fought off half-a-dozen marauders.
Then we killed one of Dakon’s horses, hiding for the future what
meat we did not immediately eat. In the afternoon Collins went
out for a walk, but failed to return. This was the last straw
to Hanover. He was for flight there and then, and I had great
difficulty in persuading him to wait for daylight. As for myself,
I was convinced that the end of the general strike was near, and I was
resolved to return to San Francisco. So, in the morning, we parted
company, Hanover heading south, fifty pounds of horse-meat strapped
to his saddle, while I, similarly loaded, headed north. Little
Hanover pulled through all right, and to the end of his life he will
persist, I know, in boring everybody with the narrative of his subsequent
adventures.

I got as far as Belmont, on the main road back, when I was robbed
of my horse-meat by three militiamen. There was no change in the
situation, they said, except that it was going from bad to worse.
The I.L.W. had plenty of provisions hidden away and could last out for
months. I managed to get as far as Baden, when my horse was taken
away from me by a dozen men. Two of them were San Francisco policemen,
and the remainder were regular soldiers. This was ominous.
The situation was certainly extreme when the regulars were beginning
to desert. When I continued my way on foot, they already had the
fire started, and the last of Dakon’s horses lay slaughtered on
the ground.

As luck would have it, I sprained my ankle, and succeeded in getting
no farther than South San Francisco. I lay there that night in
an out-house, shivering with the cold and at the same time burning with
fever. Two days I lay there, too sick to move, and on the third,
reeling and giddy, supporting myself on an extemporized crutch, I tottered
on toward San Francisco. I was weak as well, for it was the third
day since food had passed my lips. It was a day of nightmare and
torment. As in a dream I passed hundreds of regular soldiers drifting
along in the opposite direction, and many policemen, with their families,
organized in large groups for mutual protection.

As I entered the city I remembered the workman’s house at which
I had traded the silver pitcher, and in that direction my hunger drove
me. Twilight was falling when I came to the place. I passed
around by the alleyway and crawled up the black steps, on which I collapsed.
I managed to reach out with the crutch and knock on the door.
Then I must have fainted, for I came to in the kitchen, my face wet
with water, and whisky being poured down my throat. I choked and
spluttered and tried to talk. I began saying something about not
having any more silver pitchers, but that I would make it up to them
afterward if they would only give me something to eat. But the
housewife interrupted me.

“Why, you poor man,” she said, “haven’t you
heard? The strike was called off this afternoon. Of course
we’ll give you something to eat.”

She bustled around, opening a tin of breakfast bacon and preparing
to fry it.

“Let me have some now, please,” I begged; and I ate the
raw bacon on a slice of bread, while her husband explained that the
demands of the I.L.W. had been granted. The wires had been opened
up in the early afternoon, and everywhere the employers’ associations
had given in. There hadn’t been any employers left in San
Francisco, but General Folsom had spoken for them. The trains
and steamers would start running in the morning, and so would everything
else just as soon as system could be established.

And that was the end of the general strike. I never want to
see another one. It was worse than a war. A general strike
is a cruel and immoral thing, and the brain of man should be capable
of running industry in a more rational way. Harrison is still
my chauffeur. It was part of the conditions of the I.L.W. that
all of its members should be reinstated in their old positions.
Brown never came back, but the rest of the servants are with me.
I hadn’t the heart to discharge them—poor creatures, they
were pretty hard-pressed when they deserted with the food and silver.
And now I can’t discharge them. They have all been unionized
by the I.L.W. The tyranny of organized labour is getting beyond
human endurance. Something must be done.